AN: And, I'm back...again...briefly. It's very short...but it's leading to other things! I was stuck for a LONG time about what should happen after this exchange, and have had about 5 different ideas, none of which I liked. I JUST figured it out, and hope to have an update again in a week or two...hopefully a bit meatier than this.
Anyway - if you're still reading, THANK YOU FOR NOT GIVING UP ON THIS STORY! I've said it before, but would like to reiterate - I am not going to abandon this story!
Questions, comments, critiques, are always welcome - feel free to write whatever you'd like. I TRY to get back to reviews, but I must admit, even with the break, I'm a bit behind. I think. I'll double check.
A bit scattered,
-M
It was a lucky thing Sherlock had already worked his magic, so to speak, through the satellite-enabled laptop and his blogger before the helicopter arrived. The wind from its blades would have rendered the clues left in the natural environment next to impossible to discern. John frowned at the bird's appearance, certain its appearance only meant complications he could happily do without.
He'd received word from Ron that the old members of The Order of the Phoenix interested in defending the wizarding world from this new threat were ready to gather. They'd set their meeting for later that week. John had planned on telling Sherlock the next time he'd seen him, but delayed spitefully after the detective's petulant attitude.
He was regretting that decision now that it seemed something urgent and serious had cropped up. And likely involving Mycroft, if the helicopter was any indication.
"Captain Watson," the airman who'd leapt from the bird as it landed called, "I need you to come with me."
The local detective's team seemed to be fighting various levels of surprise at this sudden development.
John nodded and turned to the detective. "I think you've got all you need. Give us a ring if there's something else," he said with a resigned smile.
"Of course, thank you for your help, Dr. Watson." The detective shook John's hand.
John nodded to the soldier and fell in beside him as they moved back toward the helicopter. "Friends of Mycroft?" he asked.
"Mycroft?" The soldier asked.
"Holmes," John explained. "Tall bloke with an umbrella and a fancy suit. I assume he's the one who sent you."
The soldier ducked his head in acknowledgement. "Can't say we're on a first name basis, sir. There was a man matching that description at our briefing, though. Ginger."
"Mmm." John hummed to himself. Definitely Mycroft, then. "No chance I can decline this ride?" John asked, exploring his options.
"No, sir." The soldier replied, cautiously tensing his muscles to prepare for a runner.
John smiled in attempt to calm the poor serviceman tasked with his collection. "Best get going, then," he said, eagerly eyeing the helicopter.
It was exhilarating being in the air again, and John had missed it. He hadn't flown in any capacity since he'd been transported back from Afghanistan, and Lee Jordan's invitation to join their Quidditch pick up games had rekindled his interest. Being airborne like this was a joyful experience, and it showed in his expression.
It wasn't the same as the thrill he got flying on his broom, but helicopters had always appealed to him more than airplanes. They felt more real – raw, exposed, and a just a bit dangerous – compared to the relative safety and stillness of being enclosed in a fuselage of fixed-wing aircraft.
He grinned at his escort from their seat in the belly of the machine when he caught the man watching him.
"Enjoying the flight, sir?" the voice of his companion was slightly out of sync with his lips as it piped through the communications system in their helmets.
"You've no idea," John grinned. "It's been far too long."
The young man nodded in agreement, sharing in the thrill. "Nothing like it."
John relished the thrum, the all-encompassing crush, of the blades cutting through the air over their heads. Encapsulated like this, it was easy to forget yourself.
"Any idea where we're going?" John asked after some minutes.
The young man started at the question. "The Palace, sir." He gave John a look somewhere between surprised and doubtful.
"The palace?" John questioned. "What on earth for?"
"Couldn't say. Not my job to ask questions, is it?" The man shook his head.
"Suppose not." John agreed while internally cursing the Holmesian power-plays, and lack of notice for momentous events that had become normal as his acquaintanceship and friendship with the Holmes brothers continued.
Not that any amount of notice could have prepared him. Would his trusty oatmeal jumper any more appropriate than the muddied trousers and shooting jacket he currently wore? It wasn't as though he owned any remotely appropriate attire for such a destination.
He tried not to fuss too much, imagining Sherlock lampooning him for being worked up over propriety and respect for the peerage, for royalty. This was just one more of the oddities in his life he'd have to accept. It was no stranger than his reawakened magic or finding severed fingers in the crisper, after all.
As he exited the helicopter, John was greeted by two very stoic guards – much less inclined to chat and joke with him than the airmen had been – and led through regal corridors to an equally fine reception hall. Mycroft and a man he'd never seen before were waiting in bespoke suits across from his flat-mate, still dressed only in his sheet.
John tried to mind his manners and smother the smile threatening to break out at the realization he was no longer the most underdressed man in Buckingham Palace.